Taking place on my doorstep, I wasn’t sure if the Women’s March was for me; do I really want to substitute my afternoon yoga class for the chaos of Central London?

Equality between sexes, I whole-heartedly agree with the concept of feminism. So why the hesitancy? Well for me, that definition had been tarnished and diluted by the everyday feminists I’d encountered.

Like an exclusive club, I’ve listened to women reject one-another as feminists, because they’d failed to include that all important hashtag in their Instagram captions. I’ve been told my opinions are irrelevant because they didn’t support the beliefs of a feminist book club. I’ve watched blogger-upon-blogger flounce around Fashion Week in T-shirts proclaiming them to be feminists; T-shirts that were no doubt made by the nimble fingers of an underaged labourer in an Indian sweatshop.

What’s the common connection between these women? They’re privileged white women, just like me.

Of course it would be naive of to suggest the beliefs of those from a Caucasian decent are unfounded. Our own British history tells us that’s not the case. I know that the women who have turned me away from feminism’s door are but a tiny misled proportion, a group who have forgotten that this movement is not about book clubs and fashion statements, but about the women deprived of basic human rights.

I didn’t march to stand against the builders who dare wolf-whistle at passerbys, or to honour the ‘naked selfie’. I walked because I am a woman who believes in equality. Knowing that my voice as a middle-class white woman is unfairly heard much louder, can I really be so selfish as to not walk for the women denied the privileges into which I was born?